


Memories of a man

by justyouwaitforit



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (So is john), Affairs, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, M/M, alex is dead, burrgelica is awesome and i need more of it, cough@justyouwaitforitcough, eliza is awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 05:35:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justyouwaitforit/pseuds/justyouwaitforit
Summary: Everyone mourns in there own way, they just happen to mourn by having sex and imagining him, a man forbidden to them.





	Memories of a man

She comes every year, there is a well-worn routine to it. On July 12th at 12 o’clock she knocks once, twice, thrice. He opens the door and stands aside, waiting for her to enter. She sits down on the chair that is plagued with memories, of stolen kisses between married men, their wives half aware. Ignoring it, because then it doesn’t exist, of heartbreak as he declares that he can’t do this anymore Aaron, we’re married, we not at war anymore and my wife is worth more than you and of blame because why say your wrong when there is a person who can be blamed instead. Every year he silently promises to throw it out, (he never does) 

He grabs the drinks he made to silence his thoughts (I’m using her-she comes here, I could refuse! You could, but you enjoy having someone you can pretend is him with no guilt) coffee with a dash of milk for himself, rose tea for her. Neither says a word. She initiates it as always, putting her half full cup down and moving to his lap. The intercourse (Sex is far too personal name, sex means there a connection, a spark, all it is routine. An attempt to fill a void) is the only part that is ever different, hands exploring a body that is both foreign and home, silent gasps, bodies curling around each other, nips and licks but never kisses. It’s one of their unspoken rule-No kisses. No affection. No talking. Talking would mean breaking the spell, would mean acknowledging what they are doing, would risk the walls they have built up oh-so carefully breaking. After it's over, she leaves, tea sitting on the glass tabletop, her heels clacking against the tiles, her power and grace taking his breath away. The clock reads 12:45, the same as last year. The tea goes down the drain, the cup in the cupboard to collect dust till next year, the knowledge of the day locked away with the what ifs and want might have been, back with him. The man who started it all. They never say a word, afraid the fragile peace will shatter. Afraid of which name they would gasp in their passion. Which name do they want the other to say? Their name or his name? Afraid, that whispered names won't match up. 

At 1:30 they meet again, pretending they haven’t seen each other since last year. Talking and celebrating their memories of him. They laugh and joke and get drunk. They yell and scream and curse him. They cry and mourn and curl into a ball. The others join them in the memories, but to them none of them understand (Eliza might of, but she never joins them. Her work is the way she mourns, taking a break to her would dishonour his memory. They worry, but she refuses to rest, the flame she took from him will not die out, and she is the only one that can keep it ablaze, with a dead son, crazed daughter and children who do not see him as a father) He drinks vodka, unlike his usual refrain from alcohol, unwilling for his family’s mistakes to follow him (Who is he kidding, he’s the worst part of his family by far. Alcohol or not) 

He tells the story of a man with fire in his eyes and a brain that never slept, his voice louder than the bar, the patrons enraptured, mourning a man they had never met or heard of, then he gets to his memories from politics, his voice turning hoarse and quiet, back hunched with the weight of the blame on his shoulders. But he still recounts the memories, tells his best friend and worst enemy’s very last moment.

“HOW COULD YOU, THAT POSITION MEANT EVERYTHING TO ME, IT WAS MY ONE CHANCE TO BE SOMEONE IMPORTANT, NOT THAT YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND, YOU CAN GET ANYTHING YOU WANT WITH A PIECE OF PAPER AND A PEN, EVERYONE IS WRAPPED AROUND YOUR FINGER, EVEN AFTER ALL YOU’VE DONE” his voice ringing though the cold night air, and for once Hamilton backed down, head bowed like he was... ashamed, turning to run. Good he finally bet ham- “WAIT.” The car came out of nowhere, not stopping even as a man was crushed under it.

He fell quite as he finished the story of a man who shaped the people around him, pulling them in, they were just footnotes in his life. Story finished he returned to his vodka trying to forget the fact that he killed him, he might have well drove the car, without him, he would still be alive. He could feel the blame of the others, but he didn’t care, what else was there to care for? After all, in the end everyone who has loved him has died.

With his story finished others filled in small details of a man long gone, stories from when they all lost hope, from when they were drunk off their asses, of debates shouted till they lost their voices (And even then, they wrote down their arguments and when the paper was gone and pens out of ink they learnt sign to continue) of friendships destroyed from different views of what’s best. Of steamy nights (It was no secret that he didn’t shy away from a good time, and Eliza hadn’t cared about his relationship with other people, only putting her foot down when Phillip was born) whispered secrets and shouted promises. 

Finished in their homage, they went their separate ways, Hamilton’s old enemies tumbling into their car, lips locked together. A girl in red picked up by her fiancée, a lady that she deserved after what she had been though at the hands of men. Old friends stayed in the bar they named after the ones they lost, always a little drunk to forget the dreams of glory that had quickly turned to nightmares. And a lone sister who stumbled home with tears streaming down her face. He should have followed the script as he had every year before-walk home to a house filled of memories of the ones that he failed, drinking wine as he listened to the taunts and insults that he deserved, but instead he followed her. He expected her to yell and tell him what she must think of him but she didn’t. They walked side by side to her home. It was as grand as the last time he saw it, back when it was more than just routine, when it was just so they didn’t go insane with their love for a man who was her brother-in-law and his best friend.  
The kiss caught him off guard, but nights with surprise kisses from Alexander caused him to immediately return it. The night was better than the routine they had established and for once they allowed themselves to make a sound and shout their names into the heavens.  
In the morning they would talk. Start to make a relationship born from more than love of another. But for now, they could rest with the others presence stopping the whispers of a man who even in death changed the lives of everyone who he knew.

 

On the 12th of July at 12 o’clock there was no knock on the door, there was no cups of tea or coffee, there was no chair plagued by memories of lost chances. Just two souls on a couch sharing stories of the man that brought them together with his death. Ready to face his old friends (And enemies) with a love that was more than its start as a way to love someone forbidden to them.


End file.
